


The Sweetest Thing

by danwriteskink



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Dubious Consent, M/M, Science Fiction, Slavery, Slow Build, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 23:58:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6098200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danwriteskink/pseuds/danwriteskink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer has a valuable commodity to sell, and he wants the best possible price he can get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweetest Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Back in 2011, someone posted this prompt at ansera's Criminal Minds kinkmeme, and I've had the idea bouncing around in my head since then. 
> 
> Original prompt: http://ansera.livejournal.com/52793.html?thread=2087993#t2087993

Spencer shifted nervously from foot to foot. The cuffs on his hands were comfortable enough, though his arms were getting tired from being raised above him, and the debt brokers had been kind, if gruff. Spencer was ready for this journey to end and his new life to begin, to see what the future held for him and to begin to accept it. The transport flitter lifted off from the casino roof, moved smoothly above the skyscrapers, and through a porthole, he could see the spotlights and flashing displays on top of the buildings. It wouldn't be long until they landed at the auction centre. 

"Don't worry," one of the men said, slapping his shoulder so heartily that Spencer staggered. "Clean thing like you will be snapped up in the pre-sale inspection. You won't even see the auction block." 

Spencer nodded, and struggled to keep his balance as the transport unit pulled into a docking port above a tall and slender tower with elegant curved copper buttresses flying just below the rooftop landing bay. The brokers unclipped Spencer's cuffs from the railing above him, and reconnected them behind him. 

"Duck down, kid. Don't want to deliver you bruised." One of them pressed a meaty hand to the back of his head, and he stepped carefully down the ramp and onto the concrete surface of the rooftop dock. The brokers marched him to a service elevator, which hummed softly as it descended. When the doors opened, Spencer saw a hive of activity, as brokers queued to have their property processed. He wasn't the only commodity being checked in for tonight's sale. Four or five other broker companies were here, some of them with full coffers of naked captives in tow. Some stood in their chains, blankly accepting that their actions had committed them to a lifetime of indentured work. Some fought and protested their sentences; more than once Spencer saw a broker press their cattle prod to the flank of a shrieking man or woman. He shuddered, and was relieved that he'd been caught in a higher end casinos, and that this was his first offence. The noise and the heat of so many naked bodies all together, it was overwhelming. 

His brokers led him to a row of seats. Spencer already knew better than to sit down himself. 

"I'll go check us in," said the taller man. "You keep him quiet. The first timers can get a little flighty at this stage." 

His partner nodded, and positioned Spencer's body so that he was facing at the wall. "You'll be okay, kid. The first day's always the worst, or so I'm told." 

Processing was matter of fact: when his number was called, the men lead him to a medical cubicle. A technician in gloves and mask moved around him wordlessly, carrying out a basic exam. This was followed by a tracking chip in the right shoulder, DNA swab and iris scan, dermal printer for a numbered barcode. Spencer was in the system now, and the tattoo on his right buttock meant that everyone would know, forever. 

The viewing hall they lead him to was brightly lit and functional in furnishings. Spencer had seen a dog show once, on a conference floor at the casino he was living in at the time, and this was very similar: rows of raised alcoves, in which crouched the newly indentured, clipped to the plywood wall with the generic steel cuffs all the debt police used. They were all naked, as he was, and they stared out on the world with a variety of expressions: dread, despair, disinterest. Many were already shivering and sweating under the lights. Designer drugs struck fast enough these days that your personal credit was ruined long before your body gave up. Formerly rich and pretty young things often ended up here, once they'd snorted or inhaled their inheritances away. 

The man pushed Spencer towards an empty alcove. "Work with me, kid." 

Spencer nodded, suddenly dry mouthed as his composure fled. It wasn't his intention to fight or struggle; the brokers had been very clear when they picked up his contract. He didn't want another bolt from the electric prod that hung from the man's belt. He obediently backed into the alcove, and then stumbled as he fought to keep his balance in a crouch. The man drew his arms up, and he heard the snap of a hasp close on the chain between the cuffs above him. When he'd accepted the legal option to sell himself, he hadn't truly understood how vulnerable he would be. With his legs wide and his knees bent, his genitals were hanging out in the middle of nowhere, and he could do nothing to protect them. He closed his eyes. He could do this. 

The broker clapped him on the shoulder. "Atta boy. You'll make us a tidy profit." 

It hurt more than Spencer expected to be left alone. He took deep breaths and jiggled himself into a more comfortable position, though this left his arms pulled painfully high. He could do this. This was all part of his plan. 

\---

"You're the card counter, aren't you?" The man was well dressed – too well dressed to be law enforcement – and had the sleekly groomed appearance of someone who never has to worry about where the next meal comes from, or indeed, who will be preparing it. Confident enough that his lack of height meant nothing to him. Dark hair, peppered with grey. Keen eyes, and a mouth that was hard to read.

Spencer had been watching him since the man came through the double doors at the end of the hall; he walked the rows of cubicles where tonight's intake crouched in cuffs and leg irons, as if he were browsing the aisles of a supermarket. 

Scouting for talent before the sales, thought Spencer. Play it carefully. He nodded, ducked his head. "That's me." 

The man raised his eyebrows. "I've heard you were quite the nemesis. That the casinos didn't even know they had a problem until you tripped up." 

"All lucky streaks have to end," said Spencer. "I guess it was my time." 

"Come now, you don't believe in luck, or you'd never have taken the casinos on." The man's expression was terrifyingly genial. Avuncular, even. Spencer liked the sound of the word: menacing and deceptive at the same time. Nobody trusts an uncle, not really. 

"You don't have to believe in luck for it take advantage of you." It sounded feasible, to Spencer anyway. This was the flirt, the tease; the play that made men lay down their last dollars. Spencer wasn't just a card counter. When he had to – and tonight he did have to – he could be the shark. 

Intrigued, the man leaned a hip on the row of chairs behind him. "Why'd you let them catch you? You were talented. You could have gone on milking the casinos for years. Instead, you've caught yourself at years of indentured slavery." 

Spencer licked his lips. "Are you a flesh broker?" 

"I have been, in the past. I'm a lot of things." The man looked him up and down, amused. "Why? Are you seeking a contract? Forgive me, but you don't seem the type." 

"I have a commodity that I've been told is valued highly." Come on, come on, I've got a great hand. Let me play it. Spencer's heart was thumping hard. He never bet this high on the tables. 

The man's expression became mercenary, and his assessment of Spencer's body more intense. "It would have to be a spectacular talent. You're not unattractive, but my contacts are... elite." 

Spencer slumped in his chains with relief; this is what he wanted to hear. What he had to sell would only be valued by the better agencies. Time to put his cards on the table. "I'm a virgin." 

\---

"Dave, this is patently ridiculous. I mean, innocence is desirable, but it has to be presented right. This kid is skinny, he's clueless about his body." Madame Strauss didn't dress like the madam of a brothel – elegant suit, restrained but expensive jewellery – but Spencer supposed that this was the kind of brothel where clients wanted to forget they were paying for sex. 

He stood in the middle of the room, still dressed in the soft cotton sweats he was issued at the processing centre. Madame Strauss, and the broker, Dave Rossi, walked circles around him. 

"Clean him up, give him a few square meals, and I think he'll surprise you. Here," Rossi reached up, tipped Spencer's chin downwards so he could make eye contact. "Spencer, tell me about sodomy." 

Spencer imagined the dictionary page and let the definition unspool in his mind. "The term is derived from ecclesiastical Latin: _peccatum sodomiticum_ , meaning the sin of Sodom. Uh, it refers to the act of anal sex, usually between two men, although it has been used to describe the act of penetration of an animal by a man. The term itself is archaic, though, as is the idea that it refers to some form of deviant sexual act. Sodomy began to be decriminalised in the late twentieth century, and…" 

"Yes," said Rossi, "That's very thorough, Spencer, but have you ever thought about the act being performed on you?" 

"I, uh..." Spencer's tongue tripped and stuttered suddenly, and he felt a blush rising on his face. "I haven't, no. I mean, theoretically, I suppose, but not specifically. Um." 

Now Madame Strauss was thoughtful, tapping her nails against the brushed silk of her suit. 

"See what I mean?" Rossi traced a thumb over Spencer's lower lip, and Spencer forced himself to stand very still, though his eyes followed every move Rossi made, just in case sodomy became the next thing on the agenda. "Look at him tremble: wide eyed and utterly unaware. He's not just innocent, he's an ingénue. People will pay for the opportunity to make him blush, or to coax a wanton expression from that face. Your clientele will queue up to violate him. Especially for the first time." 

"Agreed," said Strauss, and the deal was done. Neither of them asked Spencer. Legally he was required to sign a contract agreeing to service, but there was no illusion that choosing not to sign meant freedom in any way. If he didn't sign his body into service here, he'd be returned to the processing centre and have to take his chances under the auctioneer's hammer. He wouldn't get a chance like this again. 

Strauss and Rossi argued percentages while Spencer read through the contract. The pay was nominal – what he'd make in a year for Strauss, he could collect at the tables in a decent week – but where it mattered, in healthcare, the terms were solid. It was obvious Strauss wanted to maintain her working stable. This was good; this was something Spencer had been hoping for. This is why he'd chosen – in as far as he had a choice – a contract in body service. 

When he was ready, he put the contract down on the desk and waited. He didn't think about the things that were going to happen to him, there was no point in anticipating or dreading that time. And frankly, after years of fighting to keep the system off his back, or struggling to maintain the illusion of normality, handing responsibility over to someone else was a relief. 

Strauss shook hands with Rossi, finally in agreement. Spencer weighed up Rossi's expression: he seemed to be pleased with himself, too.

"Do you have any questions, Spencer?" Madame Strauss reminded him of his third grade teacher, which, considering she was in the business of selling sex, was a little disturbing. 

Spencer cleared his throat. "Actually, I wanted to talk about reassigning the healthcare portion of the contract to a second party." 

Strauss raised an eyebrow. "That's not possible, I'm afraid. That cover is there for you; you're no use to me if you can't work." 

Rossi, intrigued again, rubbed a finger across his stubbled chin. "Who's the second party? Sibling? Grandparent? They must have something dire wrong with them that you chose this as a viable option to protect their health." 

"It's irrelevant," said Madame Strauss. "I won't gamble on the health of my investments." 

Spencer cleared his throat."It's for my mother," he said, in Rossi's direction. "I can't work and provide her with care. I did well at the casinos, but not well enough for a mesolimbic implant or the latest dopaminergic analogues. Not that, and the care that comes with those treatments." 

Rossi laughed, a rich sound, full of amusement and delight. "He wants to save his mother. Come on, Erin. You owe me a favour. Sign the contract over – I'll cover his care, if he needs any. And maybe I'll put in a bid when the day comes." 

Strauss shook her head, but picked up an enamelled fountain pen inlaid with gold and reached for the contract. "At the price he'll need to fetch to cover this, Dave, not even you will be able to afford him."


End file.
